


Dive

by thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dean-Centric, Divide, Ed Sheeran - Freeform, F/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: Prompt:~Dean/Daphne~Eighth Year





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
> ~Dean/Daphne  
> ~Eighth Year

 

 

_ _

 

__

* * *

 

_ So don’t call me baby _

_ Unless you mean it _

_ Don’t tell me you need me _

_ If you don’t believe it _

* * *

 

 

I want to tell you a story. Of one boy, one girl, and how the changing of their world started with them...

 

The War might have been over, but the remnants left behind had stained a part of every one of them, whether it be loss, mess, anxiety, tension, distrust...

 

… or the overwhelming tribulation that came part and parcel with enduring a year of running, torture, capture and fear… all because  _ dirty  _ blood was running through your veins.  

 

Because you were a Mudblood.

 

“It doesn’t matter.” That’s what they told him. And it _didn’t_ matter, because Blood status meant nothing. But, those were easy words to say when you haven’t felt the pain of being forced to tear yourself away from a life you believed you’d been accepted into. Because _that_ did matter. It mattered to Dean, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

They met on a Tuesday, which seems such an odd thing for me to say, considering they had technically known each other for the past eight years, but really, it just  _ felt  _ like a meeting. Probably because the first time you speak to someone generally is when you meet them, and therefore, they met on a Tuesday. A November one, to be exact, and the second one  _ in  _ November, if you want to be  _ really _ exact. 

 

You’d be forgiven for assuming it was a pleasant meeting, or one full of polite, yet mumbled greetings. Perhaps your first thought was of an awkward scuffle of social niceties, but again, this presumption would be wrong. Their meeting began as nothing short of a shit storm. 

 

It started with a stone bench, located in one of the Hogwarts corridors. It wasn’t a  particularly interesting corridor, or bench, for that matter, but it was the place where Dean happened to find himself more often than not during their do over Seventh Year, and it was the place one unsuspecting Daphne Greengrass happened to stumble upon, that Tuesday in November. 

 

One pale hand had jumped to her mouth at the sight of him, perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps shock. It was after nine after all, and most students had retreated to their common rooms by this time. But not him, and apparently not her, either. 

 

“Oh,” she had begun, into her palm, “I didn’t think anyone else was around.”

 

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, you will most likely agree that he should have realised that. She simply didn’t think anyone else would be around, simple. It was an entirely justifiable thought, considering not only the time, but the fact that the approaching winter had finally caught up to them. It wasn’t anything to do with the fact he was…well, someone like him. He  _ should  _ have realised all of this, nodded politely, perhaps offered a shrug whilst mumbling something funny, which probably wouldn’t have actually been funny, but that she’d laugh in response to, in that awkward way that you do when someone you don’t really know says something that you both know is not actually funny at all. Something akin to  _ Yeah, I scared everyone away  _ would have been perfectly sufficient.

 

But, as you’ve probably guessed, Dean didn’t do any of that. Instead, he opted, as you do, to scream at the approaching Slytherin, whom he had never spoken to, nor had any reason to personally dislike. 

 

“YOU’D LIKE THAT, WOULDN’T YOU? IF I WASN’T AROUND, IF US MUGGLE-BORNS HAD PISSED OFF AND NOT BOTHERED COMING BACK?!”

 

Now, if Daphne’s eyes hadn’t widened enough at the sight of him, their circumference had amassed even further at his outburst. 

 

I’m sure that some of you would agree with me, and that you would have forgiven the unsuspecting Daphne (who, may I point out, was no more a Death Eater than the chair I’m currently sitting upon) for any combination of the following actions; shouting back at him; slapping him; thrusting a well-placed knee into his most delicate of private regions; or simply storming away at his words, and you would have been entirely reasonable to think so. I’m fairly certain my third suggestion would have been the route I’d have personally opted to go down. But, luckily for Dean, or perhaps more aptly, lucky for Dean’s privates, this isn’t a tale about him and I. 

 

Where a more hardened recipient may have reacted in anger,  _ for Dean’s sake, let’s not think about what would have come to light had it been Pansy Parkinson who stumbled upon the Gryffindor that Tuesday evening (...in November) _ , Daphne’s response was something of a surprise, not just to myself, or you, dear reader, but to Dean, also. 

 

That night, Daphne Greengrass became the first of the Slytherins to say the one thing that Dean hadn’t realised, that all along, he’d needed to hear. 

 

She’d said, through tear-stained fingers and laboured breathing, that she was sorry. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a funny word:  _ sorry.  _

 

There are only five letters, after all (and two of which are the same damn letter), and it isn’t particularly impressive to look at. It’s no _onomatopoeia_ (say it with me...it’s great, right?) _,_ put it that way. But, despite sorry’s rather modest standing, _Holy Hellsnakes!_ How powerful can one adjective be?

 

Daphne’s  _ sorry  _ was in a class of its own. That one, small word, began to repair the damage to his heart and his hope. And in that moment, Hogwarts began to feel, once again, like Dean’s home. 

 

You’ll be glad to hear that Dean did, in fact, apologise for his uncalled for, and, if you ask me, incredibly rude, outburst. 

 

“I’m...actually glad that you did.”

 

“You’re  _ glad  _ that I screamed at you for no reason?”

 

“I’d rather everyone actually  _ spoke,  _ even if it’s shouted. I know our Houses, or, okay,  _ my  _ House and any of the others, well, they’re never going to be best friends, but it’s got to the point where even making eye contact with anyone feels wrong. No one speaks to us.

 

“I  _ want  _ to let everyone know that I, at least, played no part in,” she swallowed as her eyes fell to the floor, “ _ his  _ plans, but I didn’t do anything to not be associated with it either. I didn’t fight against it. And for that, I’m sorry. To you, to...everyone.”

 

Dean blinked rapidly, willing the embarrassing amount of liquid that had gathered behind his lids to disappear, and shifted himself further on the bench, “Do you want to sit?”

 

“Thanks,” she said, gratefully, as she accepted the offer, “Do you know, we’ve been in the same year since we were eleven, and I barely know you.”

 

Dean let out a small chuckle. She wasn’t wrong. He lifted one hand, and brought it up vertically, in front of her, “I’m Dean, it’s nice to meet you.”

 

She laughed, and the sound was lovelier than Dean would ever admit, and took his hand in her own, “Hi Dean, I’m Daphne.”

 

* * *

 

Sounds great, right? He was a, rather good looking I must say, guy, and she was a beautiful girl. On paper, they were perfect. But this wasn’t  _ on paper _ , or parchment, if accuracies are to be followed, which I believe they are. This was a pair of not quite adults, neither of whom were particularly adept at navigating the overwhelmingly confusing landscape of adolescent relationships in the first place, let alone at a time where uncertainty towards their peers was a commonplace occurrence. If the Hogwarts students were placed on a scale featuring two very distinct ends, Dean and Daphne would each exist on the very ends of the opposing sides. 

 

Secrecy was an option, of course. A fairly straightforward one, at that, and it was the path they chose, to begin with, or perhaps a more apt description would be that it was the path that chose them. Separately, they continued on as they had for years: Dean Thomas, a shy, artistic Gryffindor boy with a taste for apple crumble and a love of West Ham football team, and Daphne Greengrass, an outgoing, self-confessed Slytherin diva with a penchant for beautiful things and who refused to write so much as her name unless she had a peacock feather quill handy. 

Together, after their initial meeting on that particular Tuesday evening (in November, you remembered that time, didn’t you?), they existed solely in whispers, passed notes, and primarily behind closed doors in the dead of night. 

 

For Daphne, who shone through secrets, the thrill of their furtive endeavours was freeing and tantalising. It was enough.

 

For Dean, it wasn’t. 

 

It was suffocating and felt sordid, like an endurance that constantly demanded more of him. He did need more, of her. He needed all of her. The Daphne that existed when the sun shone, as well as the one that only appeared by the light of the moon. 

 

“Am I not enough?” she’d whisper, trying desperately to avert the tears that clung to her lashes.

 

“Of course you’re enough,” he would reply, hoping he sounded reassuring, “I just...I give my all. It’s what I do, I go in hard, like,” pausing, he gestured towards their moonlit backdrop of the looming black loch, “ten thousand rocks on the lake.”

 

And she would nod, pretending she understood as she lost herself first in his eyes, and then his touch, and the way the bark felt rough upon her cool skin as she allowed him to wedge her between himself and that tree. She’d kiss him, and although usually, his kisses were soft at first, this time they weren’t, and for that, she was glad.

 

* * *

 

They continued until he couldn’t. Weeks passed, and so did the Winter. What he said he  _ needed _ didn’t ever make complete sense to Daphne, it doesn’t fully make sense to me, and it may not to you, reader, but for Dean, it was as clear as the small, crystal peacock she kept hidden on her person at all times. 

 

“I need to know the truth,” he’d panted, his forehead pressed into hers, his fingers entwined with the long strands of blonde that cascaded and curled over her back, “before I dive right in-”

 

“Baby-”

 

“Don’t call me  _ baby,  _ unless you mean it.”

 

“I mean it,” she breathed, shivering at the way his lips met the pulse point on her neck, “I need you.”

 

“Don’t say that unless you believe it.”

 

Her kiss answered his pleas, but it wasn’t until the following day, when, accompanied by wide, unbelieving eyes and not-so-whispered whispers, her fingers laced themselves through his, that Daphne Greengrass’s actions confirmed her words. 

 

They were the start, the catalyst for a new beginning, where the distrust and unease that I mentioned earlier began to slowly dissipate. The indifference became civilised, and then friendship, and then sometimes more. 

 

But, like I said, it had always started with them, because they changed their world...because they were the ones that dove first. 

 


End file.
